


Tipping the Scales

by Innin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle, Porn Battle XIV, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innin/pseuds/Innin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Maedhros has yielded the crown of the Noldor to Fingolfin, he and Fingon must negotiate the new power dynamics between them. Written for the Porn Battle XIV: Fiery Fourteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tipping the Scales

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts used: Scars, love, fierce, heartbeat, pride, anger, darkness, flame, defeat

Maedhros is kneeling before Fingolfin. The crown lies proffered in the palm of his hand, and while he is present after as well, overseeing the oaths of fealty and the celebrations, he vanishes, followed by Fingon, from the after-ceremony feasting.  
  
Both are a little drunk, not enough to stumble, but enough to lower inhibitions. Maedhros bears himself proudly, his head lighter now that it not longer bears a crown, and Fingon walks steely-eyed and thin-lipped. The significance of the evening, of the oaths sworn tonight, is not lost on him, not now that the rule over the Noldor _shall remain forever with Fingolfin the King and His Heirs_. Try as he might to stand straight, his own head bows beneath the weight of future responsibility.  
  
Maedhros, perhaps sensing his discomfort and anger – for he has faced a lot of the same from his brothers, though their reasons differed - reaches for him. Out of reflex and impulse it is with his maimed right arm, that Fingon pushes away with a noise of anger, perhaps even disgust, and instead grabs Maedhros' left to pull him close, face-to-face in a mockery of their intimate friendship in Aman until their noses bump, their lips part, Fingon's hands reach up, fingers dishevel Maedhros' elaborate braids in a mockery of caresses, fingernails rake over his scalp.  
  
Maedhros keens when Fingon bites down on his lip, low in his throat, a sound in the half-dark that is not a sign of pleasure, and he seeks to push Fingon away, for he knows the strength within himself, has hurled orcs from him even after months of capture, half-starved and hurt as they kept him, has torn their throats out with his teeth – and his teeth are at Fingon's throat now, pressing down, not enough to break the skin, though enough to bruise – for he has _not_ pushed Fingon away, has instead drawn him closer, and now, wild-eyed, draws back himself.  
  
They grapple, pushing and pulling at one another, wild-eyed, perhaps battling new resentments with love and familiarity more than they battle one another. It all goes without speaking; they grunt and yell like animals. Neither is willing to surrender yet, and Fingon has the advantage – from long practice in his youth, when no more was expected of one of the High Princes of the Noldor than athletic prowess, and he subdues his opponent with moves born from long practice. Maedhros holds himself well, but he weakens and stumbles, a woven rug ensnares his feet, a small table topples, the glasses on it fall and shatter, and finally he kneels amid the shards, head bowed, hair loosed and falling across his face.  
  
The image strikes Fingon to his stomach like no physical blow could. He stands, suddenly flustered, rights his circlet of silver and sapphire, and after a moment's consideration offers his hand.  
  
He has tipped the scales. He has won.  
  
Perhaps the surrender, the second time this night, is what should be. Maedhros has always been the wiser of them both in recognizing such matters, and now kisses his cousin's fingers, his lips lingering over the bulky ring of office.  
  
"Rise," Fingon says. His voice is rough, a little shaken, and he pushes _that_ away as well until the unrest within him resolves into something solid, decisive, something at home here in private, confined behind closed shutters in the small hours of the night. And Maedhros obeys. A glance, a head-tilt, and he disrobes swiftly, thanks to ingenious fastenings that make easy work of that, until he steps out of the heap of the yellow-gold fabric of his undergarments and makes for the bed. Fingon joins him. His own clothes have been discarded without ceremony, likewise crumpling on the floor.  
  
Still they fail to speak. Hand-gestures say all, Fingon's fingers closing over the angle of Maedhros' hip, his fingernails tracing over scars that lick up his cousin's back, and he closes his eyes for a moment, forcing down those images, for they convey too clearly still, unfaded, the hurts and horrors that his cousin went through.  
  
Maedhros arches into the touches, fully aware that Fingon no longer bears him ill will now that they have fought and established the new order, that Fingon has _won_ the position he was before gifted; it is all Fingon's own responsibility now, and no one else to blame. He accepts it for a first benediction bestowed from lord unto vassal that is gladly taken and eagerly returned. Maedhros himself shifts to knees and elbows when Fingon's touches become more eager, his movements more frantic and less controlled, and Fingon rocks himself into Maedhros' hand curling around his cock.  
  
He is hard already, revels in the heat pooling in his groin and spreading upward, in the heat of his breath that reflects off the skin of Maedhros' shoulder and back into his face, the ungentle palm on him, his heart racing as he mouths over the spattering of freckles up Maedhros' neck, the tip of Maedhros' ear between his lips, the shudder that spreads along the body below him, curling toes, tensing muscles, the ridges of Maedhros' spine grinding against his chest.  
  
It's hard to bear, but he forces patience until he can, slick, work into the body finally yielding to touch beneath him, rock forward, breath stuck in his throat. Maedhros, seeking all the touch he can have, pulls Fingon's arms around his chest, clinging amost, the tousled black braids with their gold bands rubbing over his shoulder, he arches his spine just _so_ , they both moan simultaneously, kissing and biting in ways that leaves their lips bloody and Fingon half-mad with the slow pace, so he chokes down enough air to breathe, smears blood-smudges over Maedhros' ear as he mouths, between thrusts, and gasps:  
  
"Say it," and Maedhros understands, because what they are doing here _does_ require it. Rebels and exiles though they are, there is no such thing as a lack of consequence. He answers, eyes fluttering shut against a long, deliberate, deep thrust, "Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords," and Fingon's breath hitches, his arm slides up to choke the words from Maedhros faster, or to stop them entirely, "dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall keep you from Maedhros, Fëanor's son – 'tis thus I swear! Eru Allfather, hear in witness, and this vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"  
  
It is a mockery, a travesty, of the nature of things as they are, of the Oath and of the order they just established, and they both know it, somewhere in the vestiges of their mind that still allow them thought - but it is in all ways lawful. The last sentence they _both_ choke out, and Fingon thinks he can feel a noose about him, burning and strangling, but all that vanishes with the next thrust and the next, and in the final burst of white flame behind his eyes as he spills, finally mindless, and a few scarce hand-strokes suffice to bring Maedhros to his own climax.  
  
After, they lie in the dark, together. Speech, and any pretense of the pride that tinted their actions before, have altogether abandoned them.  
  
In the morning, after exhausted dozing behind locked doors, they wash, and exchange jewels. Maedhros returns to the other shore of the lake wearing a sapphire ring on a golden band from Fingon's braids, warm and hidden on his skin beneath the high-collared robes that conceal his bruises. Fingon keeps a hair-pin set with rubies in a locked drawer of his desk.  
  
The promise remains unbroken nearly to the end – though distance keeps them apart, for Himring and Eithel Sirion are far from one another, that was not in their personal oath that night, and they ride out to meet often, while the Long Peace lasts. The Union of Maedhros has them both chuckle in dark humor beneath their bedsheets, and it is with an open hand that newly-crowned Fingon promises his forces, for what else, should he, Maedhros' Lord and King, promise his most faithful of vassals?  
  
It is a league of swords across the battlefield that sunders them at last, and a Balrog's whip and axe, the same strangling weight that Fingon felt that night. Maedhros, now with two unfulfilled oaths on his mind, never again rests easy, and carries himself like a man half-gone to Mandos, and that is not entirely untrue.


End file.
